"My dad is a full-grown alpha male douche bag. Not all of us are like my dad. Not that I think about you and my sister doing STUFF ... Yeah, no, I'm not doing that ... Just, I think my little niece or nephew would be really cool, if you catch my drift."
After Damon turned Elena away, he did not have any contact with any Gilberts before he left for Santa Monica. Damon's return brought nothing: no apology, no "John was wrong," no "sorry for Vicki." Damon never really knew whether time had made the situation too awkward to broach or whether they felt no apology was necessary. Jeremy's sincere (albeit clumsy) acknowledgment yesterday was enough. Who knew that the word "cool" could help sew a few stitches in a broken heart and inch a man along? The fearful child in Damon, who wonders if he even deserves love, is still alive and present and might always be, but has been relegated to the passenger seat. The rational adult in Damon, who knows those hateful words were nothing more than repulsive bullshit oozing from an equally repulsive asshole, is driving this motherfucker now.
Damon traces the silhouette of his baby. Not Camaro. UFC belt. More precisely, UFC belts because he just acquired another one through title defense. His twins. The physical manifestations of his almost two decades of blood, sweat, and tears. He understands Elena's outrage. Nobody should be a spectator in their own life while others make decisions for them. When he first met with the UFC President, Prez literally snorted in his face and then some. "You're a fucking fighter?!" Talk about a full-grown alpha male douche bag. Damon becoming a UFC fighter would cost the UFC much more than the average fighter: higher insurance bracket, higher reimbursable fight costs ... Prez just did not think Damon was worth it. Damon had to jump through impossible hoops. He had to obtain three additional specialist doctor clearances because John's alone was not enough. Damon had to organize and promote his own mixed martial arts event in Fairfax, Virginia. This event sealed the deal. The UFC takes notice when a non-UFC fighter can pack the Patriot Center to its capacity on his own name alone. Supporters of the deaf community, supporters of his fight style, supporters of Mystic Falls, all showed up to cheer Damon into the UFC. Although he lost the fight, there was no shame. The fighter he lost to is the UFC's current welterweight champion, one weight class up. Damon is now one of the UFC's top three pay-per-view draws. Dealing with douche bags is a Damon specialty.
Damon carefully closes the glass doors on his display case and sets his feather duster back in its holder. Who has the guts to disturb his daily cleaning time? He shoots a "can you believe this" look to the rubber ducky keeping a watchful eye from atop a corner table. Back when Damon and Elena were too young to be aware of their physical differences, their parents often bathed them together to ease Elena's then extreme fear of baths. Their pair of boy and girl rubber duckies accompanied them at bath time, and to this day, Damon's rubber ducky still oversees daily cleaning time.
Damon looks like he has just seen a ghost or is a ghost himself. Kat twists her hair around her right index finger and offers a coy lip-bite. He ushers her into the Salvatore boarding house before any UFC Primetime cameras jump out of the bushes and snap away.
Pierce vs. Gilbert is in one month, and the Pierce side of the equation should be training in Florida. What is she doing here? She answers by ripping off her trench coat to expose a Frederick's of Hollywood halter corset. She traps him against the nearest wall and grinds her ass into his crotch. He is rock hard in an instant. He manages to squeak out "I don't know if I can give you what you want ..." before they get any more heated.
The grinding grinds to a halt. Kat is relieved that Damon cannot see her face or the tears that have surfaced at the corners of her eyes. She discreetly wipes her face before turning around. "And I don't care." Which is a totally truthful lie. She does not care enough to stop, but she does care enough to feel hurt.
Damon clarifies further. He is up for some casual comfort, as long as his comforters know that no relationship potential exists for now. There. Finally. He always assumed his one-nighters and friends-with-benefits knew what they were (or more precisely were not) getting themselves into. However, being called a misogynist has a way of making you re-evaluate each and every single one of your interactions with the opposite sex. Change #1: State verbal disclaimer before any sexual activity. He considers also documenting said disclaimer in writing, a "Non-Relationship Agreement." Dr. Sheldon Cooper, eat your heart out.
Kat raises a brow at Damon's lawyerlike gobbledygook. Obviously, somebody has recently gotten somebody in trouble. His command of the English language is goddamn sexy though. Everything about him is goddamn sexy. The heat pools between her thighs. She is ready to agree to whatever the hell he wants. She will sign her life away on the dotted line right this second, if it guarantees that he buries himself to her hilt the next.
Jeremy is incredulous. What the fuck is Katherine Pierce doing here, looking like a cat in heat? Jeremy hauls Damon aside.
"Look, Elena's my sister and I love her, but if she chooses you ..." Jeremy starts.
"I'm trying to do the right thing by Elena," Damon defends. Jeremy's forehead wrinkles in utter confusion and demands an explanation. "I won't change who I am. I'm a guy who loves sex ... But, I can stop chucking women like creepy blow-up doll objects. Let them know what I want, and let them make their own decisions. Whatever happens, happens." That is the most fucked up yet understandable thing Jeremy has ever heard.
Author's Note: Thank you for the feedback, follows, and favourites. Special thanks to M, vamomoftwins, Snowhite1, Shae-Lyn-Goode-Somerhalder, Bookgirl1974, haleycX, and tayleevns161.